


dancing at the crossroads

by onceuponalittlename



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Erik is distant and Christine is curious, F/M, Self-Indulgent, cabinfic, college buddies AU, kinda cottagecore, lots of coziness and flirting, write the fic you want to see in the world
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28395774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponalittlename/pseuds/onceuponalittlename
Summary: At a cabin "up north" with her college friends, Christine expects to have a worry-free vacation. When some drama gets in the way, she wanders too far and needs rescuing by the mysterious neighbor.---------I really just want them to flirt and be cozy is that too much to ask---------PG-13, I made up a bunch of OCs sorry
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Meg Giry
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. notice with a capital 'N'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw mild sexual content, alcohol, people being asses to one another, some swearing

Over winter recess, Raoul had invited a bunch of them, his college buddies, to what he’d referred to as “his cabin up north” - a string of words so vague that Christine had no idea what to expect. She knew that Raoul’s family was wealthy, but he’d invited up half a dozen people, herself included, and “cabin” felt like the wrong word for a building large enough to house them all. 

But when they all got there, in two cars to fit them all, she realized that she’d misjudged the de Chagnys. The “cabin” more closely resembled a ski lodge - modern, alpine, perched on a hill beside the lake. Everyone had their own room (except for Raoul and Meg, who were engaged and shared a room), even Cordelia and Elinor, who were sisters. 

Christine loved her room. It had a queen sized bed, a desk, a giant closet, and more than enough blankets to keep her slight frame warm - she had trouble staying warm. 

And it was wonderful, it honestly was. Watching movies and cooking and skiing during the day, drinking and dancing at night. 

But Christine also craved alone time. So she went on walks. Initially she’d run off once a day, when she got overwhelmed by having so many people around, but a couple days into their trip, she was now wandering the property several times a day, while the brief daylight was still present. 

She was always back by dark. When the sun set, the sleepy energy of the day perked up, as music started to play and drinks started to be handed out. 

These parties were more tame than the ones they’d had in college, and had become more refined - parlor games instead of beer pong, cosmopolitans and craft beer replacing rail drinks in someone’s basement - but the drinking and eating and dancing and making merry was still fun. So every night, Christine twirled in the big living room with Meg, and they reminisced of their times in theater together. For this was how everyone knew each other: the college theater program. 

Christine had begun as a dancer, but had ended up singing leads by the end of her four years. Meg had been her first and dearest companion in the dance corps, and had eventually progressed to dance captain her senior year. Raoul had always been the director’s assistant, a position that was a sort of combination of producer and stage manager, always running around handling logistics and making things happen behind the scenes. He worked at his family’s bank now, of course, and understood the worth of his patronage to the local theater companies, particularly the one his fiancée, Meg, danced at. 

Elinor and Gabriel were inseparable friends since they’d dated freshman year and quickly discovered each others’ preference for the other gender. Quirky and precisely themselves, they’d been a popular duo, particularly as bit part actors in most of the shows the program had put on. 

Cordelia, tall with long, straight mahogany hair, had been queen of costuming, in proportions much like a model herself. She was kind and lovely, if a little sheltered, but was very close to her sister, Elinor. She and Wesley had dated in college, but had since broken up. 

Wesley had been the tech genius, doing light and sound design, with the lopsided glasses and scruffy beard to match. Dating Cordelia had maybe made him arrogant, but it had faded with time, and Christine had been harboring a bit of a crush whenever she’d seen him over the past couple of years. 

And tonight he was finally starting to notice her. 

They’d all been there for the better part of a week, and things were starting to slide into routine. That night, Christine and Elinor were doing a tipsy pas de deux, with Christine’s clever leading narrowly preventing her companion from running into furniture. As a new song came on, though, they all recognized it as one from the clubs they’d frequented in undergrad, and soon everyone was dancing all together, their movements loose and casual. 

Gabriel sometimes parodied the flirty men who pulled up close to the women at their visits to the nightclubs, and she assumed that he was the one behind her, grinding on her. She whirled around, shrieking with laughter. But it wasn’t Gabriel dancing with her so provocatively - it was Wesley. He looked her straight in the eye, his expression deeply amused: He knew exactly why she was surprised. 

So they danced together. And then he made her a drink and they talked, heads bowed increasingly close as the night wore on. And he kept looking at her with those clear blue eyes, and her face was flushed with more than the alcohol. When his hand ended up on her side, gently brushing from her waist to her thigh and back again, it took all of her focus not to shudder. Was she dreaming? Was this really finally happening? 

He mentioned showing her something, a thing he had in his room, and he gently grasped her hand and tugged. She followed eagerly, hungrily. 

The door was shut behind them and suddenly he was pressing her up against it, his forehead pressed against hers and his hands on her waist. He smelled good. His scruff was pressed against her face. She couldn’t think straight. 

“You’ve liked me for awhile, right?” She nodded, unable to deny it. “You’ve waited long enough.” And his mouth crashed into hers. 

One hand slid up into her hair, the other down onto her ass. He was forceful, almost rough, but she wanted him to keep kissing her so she tried to match his ferocity.  
But it was getting sexual, fast - the hand on her ass started tugging on her leg, pulling it up around his waist. Her dress was short, and suddenly his hand was back on her bottom - but inside her dress, over her underwear.

“Wes - Wes, can we slow down -” 

He pulled her other leg up and slammed her body back into the door, with a loud noise that made her flinch. He stopped kissing her, though, looking her in the eye, frustrated. She tried to form the right words, but she couldn’t think straight. 

“It - I haven’t yet-”

“Wait, Christine, are you trying to say you’re a virgin?” She nodded, shame filling her throat and tears threatened to spill. He cursed, but then fell silent at the sound of loud conversation from outside the room:

“Wes and Christine? Are you fucking kidding me?” Cordelia’s voice was high and pissed. “I can’t believe he fucking -”

“For God’s sake, Delia, I thought you were over him. If I thought you’d be a drama queen about it, I would’ve let you stay home.” Raoul, practical as ever. 

“It’s not - I’m not -” Cordelia protested, sputtering. 

Wesley laughed curtly, as if he’d won something - with little mirth but great satisfaction. He let her down, but her legs were wobbly now and didn’t want to hold her weight. 

“Christine, you understand, right? You’re a good girl, but I’ve got to get Delia back. And… we probably shouldn’t hook up if it’s your first. That’s not casual. Thanks.” He opened the door and was gone before she could even process what had happened. 

She stumbled to her room, all of a sudden feeling her own drunkenness, and slammed the door behind her. No sooner had she collapsed on the floor than she felt overcome with nausea, and ended her evening anticlimactically in a waste basket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erik's in the next chapter sorry!


	2. lost & found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine gets lost and then promptly rescued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw mild peril, some drunkenness

She went wandering in the woods the next day, deciding to go farther than normal. Raoul had explained that the land on the other side of the lake belonged to someone else, but the property line wasn’t marked and it didn’t seem to matter much. 

She walked and the further she got the more her frustration melted away. The snow crunched beneath her feet, and the sound of it seemed like it was muffled by the snow as well. The solitude was perfect, completely perfect, and she started to sing. A light little folk song, something her father had taught her as a child, simple and easy for Christine to memorize so young. 

She’d been walking further than on her other walks, and as she came over the top of a hill, she realized that she must have wandered onto the neighboring property: there was a small log cabin nestled in a stand of trees at the bottom of the shallow valley. She paused for a second, taking in the picturesque wisp of smoke coming from the chimney and the axe for wood splitting stuck in a tree stump, and then saw a lean, tall figure with a dark blue-grey jacket moving some of the wood. He was closer than she’d initially thought - he plausibly could have even heard her singing. She felt her face flush at the thought. 

He caught sight of her, freezing in the middle of his task, and her stomach dropped. 

“Sorry! Sorry, uh, sir. I’m staying with the de Chagny’s, I didn’t mean to trespass.” 

His tone was curt, though the tenor of his voice was deep, almost musical - “You shouldn’t be here.” His tone conveyed the warning clearly. 

“I… I know. I’ll head back now. Sorry.” She turned away, and tried to set back the way she came, but he called after her.

“Wait, wait, it’ll get dark soon, and the chateau is far.” 

She was too embarrassed to heed him, though, and kept walking. “Sorry, sir! Won’t happen again!” She couldn’t see his expression grow concerned, as she shuffled off, more or less in the direction she thought she’d come from. 

But the sun was going down, and she’d misjudged the direction after all. The sun went down with little fanfare, spoiling over the tops of the trees before she’d even properly noticed. The transition from light to dark took hardly any time at all, and she didn’t even notice she was feeling weird until after she’d decided to worry about being lost. 

So she wandered. After awhile, she’d lost feeling for where the lake was to help guide her back, and a little while after that, she’d lost feeling in her feet. It wasn’t windy, but it was dark. At some point, some indeterminate period of time after the sun had set, she tripped over a branch or a rock, and suddenly was covered in the light, wet snow. 

So now she was wet, and her ankle was throbbing - but she couldn’t really feel her ankle either, which was weird - and maybe she shouldn’t have wandered so far after all. 

Oh, and she was tired - so, so tired. So maybe - maybe, if she sat down and rested for a little bit, she’d be able to try again. 

She sat down, which was hard with legs that didn’t work right, and leaned against a big tree. Already damp, she thought it wouldn’t make a difference. 

And then, suddenly, there was a voice in the distance. She couldn’t figure out what he was saying, but then he came into view - the man from the cabin, the one she’d been bothering earlier. He bent down, all of a sudden right in front of her, and he was talking to her, so worried, and it was so distracting that she forgot to pay attention to what he was saying for a moment. 

“... back to the cabin, much closer than the chateau, it’s not the dead of winter yet but I’ll get the big quilt out anyways. Can I pick you up? It’ll be faster.” It was a moment, noticing for the first time the half mask on his face, before she realized he was waiting for an answer. 

“Mm-kay.” It was exhausting to talk, entirely unfair of him to ask her to do it, honestly. She hoped he didn’t ask her anything else. 

He scooped her up with ease, like she was a small animal, not a grown woman, which would have made her pout if she’d had enough energy. His arms were warm, though, so she wasn’t too upset about it. And he was strong, and he smelled like smoke and old books. 

She just closed her eyes for a minute, head resting against his shoulder, fully intending to rest them for just a second.

But the next time she opened her eyes, the man was laying her down on an overstuffed sofa in a dim room - there was a fireplace nearby, radiating warmth that felt alien to her frozen face. She must have passed out from the exhaustion that was still making her bones heavy. 

“Can you stay awake? You don’t have to sit up, but you probably shouldn’t be sleeping.” It was still difficult to focus on his words, but not as impossible as before. 

“I’m sorry.” Her words were slow, and she tried to form them carefully, so they’d come out right. “Didn’t mean to… trespass.” 

“I know. Don’t apologize. What’s your name?” He was coming and going all around the small cabin - into the closet to pull out a large blanket, into the kitchen, back to the fire - and he walked so quietly that she was having trouble keeping track of him. Or maybe she was going a little nuts. His voice kept coming from different places, and it was confusing. 

“Christine. Daae.” 

He stopped in front of her with a mug of something warm, and carefully handed it to her, making sure she could grip it before letting go, their hands touching briefly. His fingers were long, and thin, and she wondered if he could play piano. “My name is Erik. This is my cabin, I’m the only one who lives here. Can I call your friends? I’d go there myself but I don’t want to leave you alone right now.” 

“I can’t remember Meg’s number right now.” Her brow furrowed, trying to concentrate, but the tea in the mug smelled lovely and she was trying to hold it steady through her shivering. 

“You can try again later. Just… focus on that right now.” He looked so concerned, but Christine felt fine. As she sipped more tea and absorbed more heat, she felt good, even. He tucked the big quilt around her as well, but then stepped away into a different room for several minutes. She wondered if he felt uncomfortable with the presence of a woman in his home.

Christine finally felt enough like herself to be curious about her surroundings. She sat up, careful to keep herself in the cocoon of warmth, and took in the small cabin. She was sitting on a sofa, centered towards the fire, with a similarly overstuffed armchair nearby. This room was likely the largest in the cabin, featuring a small kitchen in one corner with a dining table and two chairs. All the furniture was practical, rustic, and looked well-used. Her eyes were drawn to a vinyl player, and then, to her delight, she spotted a piano - not a grand or anything, it was the sort one found in practice rooms in the basements of music halls, but a piano nonetheless. A couple of closed doors, but she doubted that there was much more to the place than what she could see. 

It was all quite normal, though. The most unusual thing about the entire place was the man who lived there - Erik. 

He emerged from what looked like a bedroom, carrying a set of clothes. She wondered what the mask was about, but she wasn’t going to ask. 

“You need to get out of those wet clothes. I’m sorry, everything here is mine, but these are probably fine for the time being.” 

“Thank you. I’m already starting to feel better, I think.” He handed her the stack of clothes - a flannel shirt and pajama pants - and he was actively avoiding touching her again, she could tell. Which was silly, because she had just noticed how his eyes were so light brown they looked almost gold, and she didn’t mind him being near. 

“Bathroom’s through there, do you think you can walk that far?” 

She nodded, and put her tea down as she tried to extract herself from the blankets. Though wracked with a strong shiver once she’d dropped the quilt, she managed to push through it and get to the bathroom. 

She shut the door, locked it, and caught a glance at herself in the mirror as she began to take off her soaking wet clothes. She’d always had a difficult relationship with her reflection, but even with that bias she looked pale and unwell. 

Christine sighed, and shrugged on the sweater - probably small for the cabin’s resident, but she was swimming in it - and the flannel pants. She rubbed her arms, drawing warmth into her tired limbs, and gathered up her discarded clothes. 

The man - Erik - was crouched, tending to the fire when she stepped out. He glanced up at her, his mouth opened to say something, and then he froze. She wasn’t sure what the look on his face meant - blank, lips slightly apart, almost awe-struck? She’d seen that look on the faces of others before, but never at her. 

She must be imagining it. 

“I can remember Meg’s phone number now.” All the words came out too fast, he jumped a little. Internally kicking herself for startling him, she offered a weak smile and tried not to get too distracted by his golden eyes. 

“You can borrow my phone.” 

“Thank you.”

Meg didn’t answer her phone either time she dialed it. After a minute of racking her brain, she remembered Raoul’s phone number, and he picked up.

“Christiiiiiiine!” He sounded drunk. Her heart sank. “We miss you, where are you?” 

“I… I went on a walk and got lost, Raoul. Who’s the most sober over there? Please put them on.” She felt pathetic, and paid close attention to the leaping flames in the hearth, avoiding looking at Erik. 

“Cordelia? Deeeeelia!” She could hear chatter, music, laughter. “Meg, where’s Delia?”

“Is that Christine? She’s okay??” Some muffled sounds, and then it was Meg on the phone. “Christine! I’ve been so worried!”

“I left my phone there, Meg, and then I got lost. I’m at the neighbor’s -” 

“Oh my gosh, Christine. We’ll - we’ll come get you -”

“Meg, how much have you had to drink?”

“I can drive.” 

However, Christine had heard this before.

“No, you can’t. Raoul said Cordelia’s sober, you should find her for me.” 

“Mmmkay. Love you, Christine.”

She could hear the phone get put down, people scrambling around, calling for Cordelia. Christine couldn’t look at Erik. This was too embarrassing. 

“I think she’s in Wes’s room.” Raoul’s voice was back. Christine’s blood ran cold, and didn’t think about it at all when she hung up. 

The phone clattered onto the coffee table and she put her head in her hands, feeling a million things, none of them good. 

Then she remembered Erik was still there. 

“I’m… I’m sorry about all of this, I’m sure this isn’t what you were expecting today, and you’ve been so good and kind -”

“They’re drunk?” His face was hard to read, even through the mask. 

“Well, Cordelia’s not, but, she’s - she’s -” Christine had to take a moment to breathe, so she wouldn’t cry in front of this man. 

He crossed the room and kneeled in front of her, probably because she wasn’t looking at him again. “It is no intrusion at all. What’s going on?” 

She didn’t know why he was continuing to be so kind to her, but she found herself telling him the entire unfortunate tale, of Wesley and Cordelia, and how, even though she’d not been forced or coerced, she felt… used. So she’d run off today, aching for silence and peace, to process what had happened, and to feel her emotions. And, well,   
“And here I am,” she finished lamely. She hadn’t cried the whole time she’d told her tale, which she supposed was some sort of victory in itself. 

Erik opened and closed his mouth a few times, apparently unsure of how to respond. This was so embarrassing - she’d needed to be saved like some damsel in distress, and now she was just spewing her personal problems all over the place - 

“I am sincerely sorry that all of this has happened this way. I do not know you, Miss Daae, but I am certain that you do not deserve to be treated this way.” Christine finally raised her eyes to his, to find them so intense, ferocious, that it almost frightened her. “Now that I am assured that you’re out of immediate harm, I could take you up to the chateau to rejoin your… friends.” He said it like a euphemism for something much worse. It probably was. “It may be better for you, if you agree with my assessment, to rest here for the evening, and return to them in the morning.”

“I would hate to prevent you from having your evening as you planned it -”

“Really, if it makes it better to be away from all… that. I don’t entertain often, and you certainly weren’t interrupting anything pressing.” She met his gaze, weighing her options. He seemed perfectly normal - except for the whole hermit-in-the-woods thing. But he had saved her. If he’d meant her harm, he could have left her to freeze, or not provided the gentle care he’d used to revive her. Maybe he was just a man who preferred his solitude. 

Well, she knew she didn’t want to go back to the rest of them, to Raoul’s indifference, to Wes’s cruelty, Meg’s pity. Her brow furrowed, and Erik raised an eyebrow in response. 

“I have a question.”

“That is allowed.” Amusement flickered across his expression. 

“Are you a serial killer?” He laughed then, not a loud sound but a warm one. 

“If I were, wouldn’t you be dead by now?”

“You’re avoiding the question.” This sparked more laughter, and she couldn’t help a little smile for this poor man who’d had to deal with her so much today. 

“No, Miss Daae, I’m afraid not.” 

“And you’re quite certain I wouldn’t be disturbing you?”

“That’s a second question, Miss.” 

“Well, that’s not quite fair, Mister -”

“Just call me Erik.” 

It felt uneven, him calling her “Miss” and her calling him by his first name. “Then I must insist you call me Christine.” 

His expression seemed slightly displeased, but it passed in a minute as he braced his hands against his legs to stand. It looked odd to Christine, a motion more suited to older people, not this strong young man. Even with half of his face covered by the mask, he was youthful, not the grizzled older man she’d assumed would be living alone at this cabin. 

“What do you do when you’re not entertaining, Erik?” 

He busied himself with clearing away the wet clothes and the now-cold tea, but she caught the shadow of a smile on his face. “I listen to music. Play it on the piano. Read. Nothing of great excitement or interest to you, most likely.”

“You play?” She glanced at the piano back on the other side of the room, delighted to have her suspicions confirmed. 

He hit her with a wicked grin, the first of its kind she’d seen from him, and warmth sparked in her chest at the sight. “I was about to try to be modest and say that I’m not particularly skilled at it, but I disapprove of lying on principle.” 

Erik settled in at the piano, accustomed and at ease, and ran his long fingers up and down the keys with understated flourish. 

“What do you play?” 

“Anything. Everything. I have a passion for opera, however.” He started puttering with the piano, pulling out a light operatic melody, something sweet that she didn’t recognize. She delighted in the playfulness of it all, and drew closer, leaning on the wall so she could watch his hands. 

“I’ve done an opera or two in my time, if my out-of-practice singing is of any interest to you.” 

“In your time? You hardly look old enough to drink.” He was teasing her, but she saw that she had piqued his interest - the intensity in his gaze was back, but not angry, like earlier. The playing on the piano had not stopped for any of the conversing between them, but the tune wandered in a more familiar direction, a selection from Puccini’s “La Boheme,” a question in the quirking of his brow. She smiled and nodded. 

“I played Mimi. Just a silly little part, the seamstress who loves flowers, but I enjoyed it very much.” The music began to shift, leading into the introduction to Mimi’s solo, and Christine hummed along, very pleased with this turn of events. At the right moment, she took in a deep breath, and sang. The song was of a simple life, and simple loves, and how the appreciation of those loves was just like poetry. 

It wasn’t her best performance, certainly, since the role was two years past, but her voice took to the endeavor well. She’d enjoyed Mimi’s sweetness and simplicity, and her longing for something a little more. 

Erik was a wonderful accompanist, and she marveled at how he knew the piece without any aid at all. Christine finished, but his fingers kept moving, slowing, introducing a more romantic, passionate melody. She recognized it, and laughed to herself. He misinterpreted this, however.

“The duet, at the end of Act I, do you recall it? Would you indulge me, just a little? You are a wonderful Mimi, my Rodolfo would pale in comparison -”

“I’d love to - I apologize, I laugh when I’m happy, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means you are happy.” He smiled, so genuine. What sort of man was this? “Do sit down, if you’d like.” He moved over on the piano bench, and she settled in beside him. Close, but not touching - she could smell smoke on him, from the fire, assumably, and pine. It was pleasant.

And so they sang. Erik began the duet, and she was reminded of how, upon first hearing him speak, she’d found his voice musical. In fact, he was much, much more skilled at the craft than she was. She was so enraptured with his voice, she nearly missed her cue to enter the piece herself. Normally, this duet was passionate, flamboyant; but there was a certain shyness to their performance. It was sweet and gentle. 

His focus on the dual task of playing the piano and singing allowed her to look at him without reserve. The mask was on the far side of his face, which made her notice - properly notice - that he was handsome, if a bit thin, his cheekbones at sharp angles. And those eyes… he was striking. 

They finished the song, and his right hand traveled up the keys, tracing the melody at a higher pitch. He was so diverted by it, he didn’t even notice his arm getting closer to her until his wrist brushed her stomach. The touch sent a shock through them both, and both of Erik’s hands spasmed, ending the tune abruptly on an unresolved chord.

“I apologize, Miss Daae -”

“Christine, please.” 

“Christine.” Erik turned to her, opening his mouth as if he was going to say more, but then he froze, looking down at her, hardly six inches between their faces. There was a moment, then, a lovely one, but before Christine could properly realize what was happening, Erik had swiftly risen and was halfway across the room. He fumbled with the blankets on the couch, maybe just needing something to do with his hands. “Christine, you’ve had a long day and I shouldn’t tax you further. If it is acceptable to you, I have many books here to read, and I could put on some music and make you another cup of tea.”

And so they did. They read quietly, she again wrapped in blankets on the sofa, he tucked into the armchair, while vinyl records of classical music played softly in the corner. She tried to put that moment of closeness, almost intimacy, from her mind. It was silly, of course, to imagine tenderness with this man. But she enjoyed deeply this quiet, easy companionship between the two of them. It was a welcome change from the joyful, but cacophonous, style with her friends. 

It grew late, and Erik settled her into his bedroom over her weak protests. She was awfully tired, and likely wouldn’t sleep well on the sofa. He wouldn’t hear of her doing it, anyways. He was so like a gentleman, she noted. 

But Christine had always had trouble sleeping in new places, and even though they’d spent such a lovely evening together, it bothered her to know so little about him. She’d felt safe, and he’d saved her life, sang with her, let her sleep in his bed. But what was his last name? 

These thoughts wouldn’t let her rest, so she slipped out of bed and paced a little, hoping to tire herself out. No luck, however. 

If Erik was awake, maybe she could ask him these things. And if he was asleep, maybe that would reassure her restless mind that it was safe to sleep as well. 

She padded to the bedroom door, and turned the knob gently, trying to make as little sound as possible. 

Erik was standing there, though - right outside the door - and it made her gasp in surprise, a hand rising to her chest. Was she imagining it, or was his face flushing? 

“I apologize for startling you, Christine. I… couldn’t sleep.”

He was close, within arm’s length, looking sheepish, his lovely golden eyes avoiding hers. 

“I couldn’t sleep, either. I thought - maybe, we could talk a little? If it’s not a bother.”

“Not at all, Christine. Come, sit.” 

They sat on either end of the short sofa, a more respectable distance between them, and Christine drew her legs under herself. 

“What do you want to know?”

“What’s your last name?” He laughed then, leaving a steady smirk on his face. Christine was surprised to find that she thought it suited him. “Oh, don’t you make fun of me, you know mine, it’s not fair if -”

“Claudin. I am Erik Claudin.” 

“Erik Claudin,” she repeated carefully, trying out the syllables on her lips. He made an affirmative noise to validate her attempt. “Why do you live here, all on your own? You are -” an extraordinary musician? A caring man? “It must get lonely.” 

“I would prefer not to answer that, if it’s all the same to you.” She bit back the immediate questions that sprang to mind, but he must have seen the concern on her face. “I’m not an outlaw or a criminal, if that’s what you’re thinking.” A thoughtful pause. “I hardly ever think to miss the company of others. I must admit, however, that today has proved an exception.” 

And now she blushed, and looked down to hope that she hid it.

“Now, I have a question for you.” She met his gaze, and found it full of genuine interest that surprised her. “Where did you learn to sing like that?” 

They spoke of music - of her father, teaching her what he knew from a life as a professional violinist before his sickness; of performances in high school, opportunities in college; unfortunately, she was unable to recount much of a musical education outside of the training she’d received in college. They spoke of music, and both relaxed into the comfortable conversation. Erik didn’t seem the type to become particularly animated when speaking, but as he was sitting cross-legged, his fingers ran over his thighs like piano keys, absently, almost like he didn’t even know he was doing it. 

He told her about opera - not sharing any particular details as to how he’d learned it all, but telling her about the same of music, the melodies he loved and why, the difference between a passionate opera and a formulaic one. 

Eventually, they readjusted enough times that they inched closer together, and by the time Christine felt the heavy drowsiness, their shoulders were pressed together, side by side, watching the embers of the dying fire.


End file.
